What I Assume

One Day, Final Hours

The legs he hefts one by one
up the steps aren't his,
nor is the desk clerk's girlish smile
but he keeps it ringing in his mind
joining the ping pong chorus
of loves that've passed away
chances for romances, yes, many
squandered away
like dollars dropped in drink:
drowning, they say. But in his heart he's simply
bartering for a delay.
Is the universe beige or
simply bland--a murky tan?
The answer murmurs, "Yes,
I am afraid."

The narrow hallway of his final hours
glows golden, green, and red
every room looks the same
but he knows his number's
coming up.
He hits the dead-end turn
confused, hears
the ice maker chuckle,
the vending machine humming a hapless tune.

The trap snap shut of
someone else's latchwork door
hinting at his latchwork door
an unknown neighbor's helping hand
taking him to the tiny room
hand-picked by the desk clerk,
who's just now got off work.

Inside he's on his own.
A well-made bed, a plastic comb,
a TV set, a telephone,
the unseen room, the silent number
he must wonder
will hereafter be unknown?